Grey Beasts
by mistycrow
Summary: Your mistakes lie on your bed or on a pool of blood. The only thing they have in common is their unchangeable existence.


**AN:** I just realized how much I try to avoid writing conversations. It used to be my favorite part of a story, but right now I tend to stick with the flow of thoughts and feelings rather than interactions. This is a story I have decided to write just half an hour ago, because I wanted to write something for Urie and his character development – but I couldn't think of anything to write. So I decided to let the words take me wherever they wanted and this is the result. Again, my sincere apologies for any grammatical error you may find. **Do tell me your** _ **honest**_ **thoughts, I love hearing them.**

 **Important Notice:** There are **spoilers ahead**. If you don't follow _Tokyo Ghoul:re_ every week and hate to be spoiled, please avoid reading this story.

 **Grey Beasts**

Sometimes you look at yourself and think – hey, that's not me.

This happens more often than you think. It's just a fleeting thought that stays on your mind for a minuscule of a second and doesn't linger. Most of the time, you don't even notice it and continue with your daily routine. Sometimes it takes you a lifetime to notice this little whisper in your mind – hey, are you sure that is how you want to be? – and in many cases, it's too late. It is very, very late when you notice your reflection on a bloodied window, with crimson blood on your hands, on your torso, on your lap (where his head was resting and his empty eyes were looking at you and you couldn't do a thing to save his life and you just watched him suffer and…), on _everywhere_ because you can't turn back and undo your mistakes.

(Your mistakes lie on your bed or on a pool of blood. The only thing they have in common is their unchangeable existence.)

This little voice follows you to your room, to your bed, to your work every day – hey there, be careful, be careful not to make a mistake – and you ignore it. With every step you take, tap tap tap, you are suppressing the desire to turn around and look at the worn out face reflecting on the glass right next to you, tap tap tap, the voice of your steps shadow over the doubts in your mind, tap tap tap, they are there, but they aren't there.

Push your thoughts under your bed – hey, there are monsters there.

Sometimes you look inside other people's eyes and see the same little devil whisper. He's holding something, like a birdcage, like a head, like a helmet, like a corpse. That is a secret, and you know it, that is their secret and this little devil holds it too loosely, it will slip away, it slips away from his arms.

Sometimes, you lie on your bed and look at the ceiling, worn out and ready to let your thoughts roam around freely. That is the time this fleeting thought scoots over you and sits next to you, this is when it can be the closest to you – because you let it. You let go of the little white bird, you open the cage and it flutters above your head and it sings it most devilish song.

At times like this you want to let go – hey, this really isn't how I want to live. There is something wrong, there is something wrong, there is something wrong –

(I'm doing something wrong.)

But every night ends with a delightful spell of sleep and you dream, though most of them disappear once you open your eyes, and you feel like you have aged three more years in six hours of complete freedom.

Right now – do you know what's happening right now?

There is a pool of blood in the middle of the room. There is blood _everywhere_ in the room, no matter where you turn to; you can't escape it, no matter how much you want to. But most importantly there is blood around him, staining your legs and her legs and his body. There is a hole where his stomach should have been. His eyes are blind, his ears are deaf, his senses are dull.

He is dying,

He is dying,

He is dead.

You can hear that thought right now – hey, this isn't me.

The devil speaks in your teardrops and you can think of nothing else. There is no other voice to lead you out of this misery, you are grieving, you want to grieve. This little bird sings on your shoulders, around your head, in your mind – and you just give in to it. You finally realize there is something wrong, this devil is right, you are doing something wrong, there is something missing in this story of yours.

Tragedy, is it a tragedy. Is it. Is it?

There is blood on your hands, on your lap, on your legs, on your face – all of it belongs to him and he is dead, he died in your arms. He was young and cheerful and naïve and he didn't deserve it and he died protecting you. He had everything you didn't have. Now you realize it, now you accept it, now it makes sense.

The slap makes sense, the hate makes sense, the emptiness makes sense, the voice in your soul makes sense.

All the things you had ever wanted should have been his. He should have prospered. He should have been happy. He should have been able to get all the money in this world and pay his sister's surgery and he should have been happy and he should have had everything and he should have lived.

He should have lived but he doesn't.

And you realize all this, too late, _because_ he is dead. He is laying on that pool of blood and his white coat is painted red and two of his friends hold him in their arms and you are just standing there crying on your own and clenching your teeth and your fists and cursing the fate and hating the world and maybe even God but who knows and you just realize all this and it's too late. If you had realized this sooner, only if you had, but you didn't and now he's dead.

There he comes – hey, hey, hey, this is _his_ fault.

This isn't the devil, of course, this is the angel. It is just showing you the way, this black bird is flying around you and singing you with its songs – it's him, him, him, he's late, he wasn't here on time, he let those he cared about die, it's not me, _please it's not me_.

And he comes. You tell him, you sing to him of your misery and your hate. You have to direct it towards him or else the black bird, the caged bird, the corpse, the head, the angel will kill you, you will be suffocated, you will be decapitated, you will die like him and drown in your mud of guilt.

You tell him, because that's all you can do.

You are late (you weren't there, I couldn't do anything and you weren't there) he wanted to see you (because he needed you, we all needed you) he is dead now (because of…)

The cage is opened, in his eyes; the bird has flown away, the corpse is walking headless, the helmet has melted and the lights have shone out. You feel fear creeping in your soul and the black angel of truth holds your throat and your breath leaves you.

Is it my fault now?

(It is not.)

Who was it that fought beside him?

(Me.)

All the losses in this world are due to a lack of ability.

(My lack of ability…)

You were too weak.

And you just stand there – hey, _isn't he right?_

Because you know he is right. You thought about it, your weakness, your incapability, your selfish desires and your young will. You cry an you cry for hours and the tears wash away the black ink on the bird and suddenly, in a moment of tragedy stricken realization, you see the grey feathers fall into the red pool of your friend's (because that was what he is – was – no, no, _is_ ) blood and disappear.

You have created an image for yourself, a white bird, a white cage, a white devil. You painted it black, a black bird, a black corpse, a black angel. Desire and tragedy, goal and disappointment, gain and lost.

You just realized your true nature, you grey human, you grey person, you grey beast, and now you are free of your cage – hey, _welcome._

Say goodbye, Urie, say goodbye to your friend, say goodbye to your mentor, say goodbye to your dream and your promotion and wake up to a world of grey – because it is the most beautiful color in this black and white world.


End file.
